Dejeuner
by ThisIsTrueImmortality
Summary: "It's lunch time," she said, with a smile. Alana Bloom goes out to lunch, her briefcase clutched tightly in her hands. -A "Murder Wife" AU. Warnings for dark themes/disturbing content.


**Dejeuner**

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She closed her _DSM-IV_ for the last time. The pages fell and the book shut with a soft thud. She rested her hand for a moment on its cover, palming the simple texture with fond remembrance. She left it sitting innocently on her desk and rested her old lab coat gently beside it, freshly ironed and folded neatly alongside her very first stethoscope. She put no effort at all into making the arrangement pleasing to the eye: she was not making a statement. No one would appreciate this trio of articles for their beauty and functionality except for the woman who had left them on her temporary desk in her temporary office.

She shook her head: everything in her life was temporary, now.

She took her coat and briefcase out to her car, waving to a colleague as they passed her on the sidewalk. When her fellow doctor asked her where she was going, she answered, "It's lunch time," with a small smile.

She played one of her favorite songs over her car's superior stereo system, moving her lips automatically to the lyrics. The notes struck her heart in places so very different from their usual pattern. She found herself fighting back tears and wiped impatiently at her eyes. She had no time for emotions, today. Her hands relaxed their grip on the steering wheel to match her slowed breathing. She turned up the volume and sang loudly, defiantly, but her voice broke around the words.

Her thoughts wandered to her time in medical school, to the feeling of utmost pride that had overwhelmed her on graduation day. She recalled every word her parents had said on that day, every hug they had bestowed. She pictured the face of her first boyfriend, a gawky boy from high school who had been too sweet to take up her offer of a very private party after homecoming and had challenged her to all-night Nintendo games instead. In her mind, she whispered quietly to her best friend, the one she had lost years before to suicide and loneliness, the one who had inspired her to become a psychiatrist.

She deliberately remembered her first meeting with Will Graham. She remembered, with a twinge of regret, the way she had been put off by his plaid shirt and torn jeans. She had mentally criticized him for being so careless with his appearance. Then, she remembered the realization-that Will Graham was brilliant and beautiful and entirely unique. She had been drawn to him, fascinated but unwilling to breach the lines of friendly curiosity and clinical examination.

Every other face from the last ten years, she purposefully forgot. Every doubt that had plagued her for the last week, she dutifully buried under the weight of certainty.

Suddenly, her destination appeared in her windshield. She did not allow her foot to ease off the gas pedal, but drove steadily into the driveway. Once she parked, she unlatched her briefcase and touched each item in its fragrant leather confines. She inhaled the crisp, clean smell of a dead animal's decay, then exited her car.

When she rang the doorbell, she squared her shoulders and lifted her chin, keeping an image of a lioness on the hunt fixed in her mind's eye. She did not allow her eyes to close in shame or her hands to tremble with fear. For this one simple lunch date, she could be a lioness.

She was admitted into the familiar space with civility. She would venture to say her host welcomed her with something bordering on pleasure, evidenced by a deceptively deep kiss. She smiled a red-lipped smile and accepted a glass of wine. The topic of conversation as a pristine white plate was set before her nearly turned the alcohol to vinegar in her mouth: they spoke of Jack Crawford and the FBI, of Will Graham's madness, of their mutual concern for his well-being. In that moment, she felt the world settle heavily on her shoulders, a mantle she felt under-qualified to bear. She bore it nonetheless, and tipped her glass to her host before she drank. Her briefcase sat beside her chair, as unobtrusive as her motives.

If any of the stomach-turning emotions crowding in on her psyche showed on her face, she was not made aware of their appearance. Lunch continued as usual, with crisp criticisms and soft syllables. She wiped her fingers on her napkin. She could not muster enough pretense to laugh at a particularly witty turn of phrase, but her hand reached out to squeeze her host's in an understanding gesture. If she lingered too long-if she clutched too tightly, flesh whitening around flesh-there was no mention of the movement as they continued into dessert.

For once, it seemed that her thoughts were her own. She had received nothing but smiles today, even from her patients. Looking at the man opposite her at the table, she could see that, for once, he had not sensed the change in her blue-eyed gaze. The lioness had not leaked into the psychiatrist-not yet.

Her phone, tucked inside her briefcase, began to ring. She looked back at her valise, controlling the feeling of dread as it rolled through her. She blushed on cue and stammered out an apology, making an excuse worthy of the interruption. She was quickly forgiven. Then she stood, walked to the briefcase, and knelt before her knees could give out of their own accord. She opened the top and flipped back the leather flap, fishing an object from the briefcase's interior and checking its settings.

The phone continued to ring.

There was no time for either of them to think or react appropriately: one moment they were together, having lunch, and the next, one of them had pulled a gun out of a briefcase and shot the other four times in the chest. Before the fifth shot, realization clouded both of their gazes. She blinked fiercely and refused to waste a single bullet. He stared wordlessly at her, his face free from the pain he would have no time to feel.

Before the sixth shot, she couldn't stop the words from spilling out of her mouth. "You're the Ripper," she said clearly, her voice carrying across the dead space of the dining room. "And I still love you, but I'm not sorry." As she prepared that bullet, he put his hands against the table, an attempt to stand. She changed her target and put the shot through his head.

When his body fell across the table, the tears finally escaped their confines and ran down her cheeks. "Goodbye," she said, through a swollen throat. "Goodbye, oh, my go-I have to do this-I have to-" She sobbed incoherently as she went back to her briefcase, taking out the remaining items, the finale to her macabre show. She set them on the table and set to work, re-arranging the food, re-positioning the items. She finally moved over to his body. Her tears poured over the fine white tablecloth and mixed with his blood. With a steady hand and a trembling jaw, she pushed his unresisting shoulders back and rasied up her knife.

After what seemed like an eternity, her work was done. She washed her hands in the kitchen sink, eyes staring blankly into the tiles on the backwash. When she came back into the dining room, she took her place in her chair, closed her eyes, and ended their tawdry story.

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**Author's Note: Um...Sorry I'm not sorry? XD **

**I thought I'd try my hand at some very dark Hannibal fanfiction. I would like to say that, for Hannibal fics alone, I make the exception to my "No Mature Ratings" code for my profile. The very nature of Hannibal is Mature with a capital M, so I feel that it is necessary to put that rating for all fics regarding this fandom. I do not recommend anyone under 18 watching this show. **

**Alana/Hannibal: An exercise in mind games, terror, betrayal, and despair. All those feel good emotions. I really am struck by this doomed pairing, and a bleak "Murder Wife AU" came to mind almost immediately after I learned that this pairing is real. Alana is a remarkably strong, level-headed character. I love her. I wanted to make her suffer. That came out sounding wrong...**

**Song: Samson by Regina Spektor watch?v=p62rfWxs6a8&list=PL1581EA7373F55D29&index=38 (it was the most understated tragic song I could find)**

**Hope you...enjoyed it?**


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